tPS 

3503 

R4988 

F4 

1915 


UC-NRLF 


13M 


GIFT  OF 


A  3te  (fuatrauts 


OUmstmaa  1915 


DEDICATION. 

My   father,    mother,    brother:    To    you    three 
I    humbly   dedicate   these    verses,    line    by    line. 
I    hope  that   in  these   poor  thoughts  you   will   see 
That   all    I    have   of  skill    and    power   are  thine. 


321359 


SPRING    SONG. 

I    heard   a   robin   singing    in   the   rain 
I    saw   a    rainbow   sifting   through    a   cloud, 
And    in    my   mind   an   eagle   soared   aloft, 
While    I    but   watched    him,    bent   and    bowed. 


CHRISTMAS    QUATRAINS. 

Dew  of  a  Western  sunrise  gleaming   'neath  the  dawn, 

Scent  of   a   Western   garden    at   the   door, 
Mist  sails   upon  the   level   ocean's  floor, 
And   Christmas   berries   nodding   on   the  clovered    lawn. 

A   toast   of   coming   Christmases   to  you    I    bring: 
Be  thine   the   sturdy   power   of  the   Yuletide   long, 

Be  thine  the  Christmas  flowers  shadowing  the  Spring, 
Be   thine   the   tender    blessing    of   the    lifting   fog. 


PROPHECY 

The  finest   of  us  err  when   we   are  young: 
Too  lofty  are  our  pinnacles  of  life. 

But  towers  from  these  earlier   ruins  sprung, 
At  last  shall  stand   out  far  above  the  strife. 


LEGACY. 

Leave    me   no    memories   fairer   than   the    hills, 
With    bare  flanks  to  the   fostering   sun; 

Play   me   no  sweeter   music  than  the   rills, 
When   finally   life's   sad    labor's   done. 


QUATRAINS    IN    A    CHURCH. 

It  rises  up;  a  fear-fraught   melody, 
The   voices    blending,   quivering    in   the   loft, 

Seeking    in   vain    an   outlet   to  the   sky 

That   waits   above,    so   clear   and    blue   and    soft. 

Whence  comes  the  glory  that  encircles  that  slim  beam 
And   paints  the  steel   with  gilt  and   sapphire  light? 

'Tis    but    a    dim    reflection — only    a    day-dream 

From   Natures  sunlight,  warm   and  fair  and   bright. 

My  faith   is  of  the  future,   not  the   past. 

Things   that    have    been    are    dead    and    grey. 
On  the  great  deeds   my  fathers   have  amassed. 

I    shall    rise    upward    to   the   fuller    day. 

The  choir  left  the  church;  their  voices  rise  and  fall, 
Like  the   dim   echo   of   a   torrent   far  away, 
Whose  flood,  decreasing,  dwindles  slowly  day  by  day, 

Quavered  with  sad   persistence  through  the  silent  hall. 

You    of    blind    faith,    who    only    gaze    above, 
Think   for   an    instant   of   all   those    below. 

You   "praise  the   Lord"  with  far  more  awe  than   love. 
You   miss  the   sunset — see  the   after-glow. 


QUATRAINS     OF     WAR. 

We    were   not    made   to   fight   and    war,    for   that   were   sin. 
And  yet,   we   hear  the   battle's   roar,   the  cannon's   din! 
And   so  we  cry,   and   call   upon   the    Lord    above. 
Perchance    He    is    a-hunting    gone — our   God    of    Love. 

One  man  the  less?     Why,  let  him   be. 
He,   stalwart  fellow,   earned   his   rest, 
He  did   his   duty — he   refused   to  flee — 
And    now   he    has   a    bayonet    in    his    breast. 


LOVE     QUATRAINS. 

My  love  is  not  like  the  cold  sky; 

Her   hair    is   warm,    her   lips   are   soft. 
Her    heart    beats    swiftly    in    her    breast — and    I? 

I   find    her  nearer  than  the  stars  aloft. 

Thine  eyes!     Had    I    a  thousand   tongues; 

The  cunning  of  a  thousand   brains, 
I    could    not  tell   one  atom   of  my   heart, 

Nor   sing    their    beauty    in    endless    refrains. 


SUNSET. 

Oh,    sky   of   evening,    in    the    sunset   glow, 
Thy  star  a   pulse   in    Heaven's   breast! 

Oh,   sky  of  evening,   would   that    I    might   go, 
And   on  thy   bosom    lie,   at   rest. 

The  sunset  sank  to  silence   in   the  sea, 
And,    like   a   bar  of  fire,   one   lone   cloud 

Stretched   its  sharp  contour,   light  and  free 
Above  the   hills   in    reverent  silence   bowed. 

Under  the  sanguine  sunset,   blood  thou   art; 

A    sacrifice    beneath   the   many-domed    clouds, 
Dyed   like  the   pulses  of  a  bleeding   heart, 

Staining   the  fog-banks,   sunset's   purple   draperied 
shrouds. 


NIGHT. 

Star,   falling    silently    in    space, 

Are  you   a   bit  of  some  forgotten   world 

That    played    its    part,    and    ran    its    race, 
And    now    into   oblivion    art    hurled? 

The   moon    is  strangely   lucent  on  this   night: 
It  seems  a   pendant  from  the   heavens   hung; 

Diamonded    above   with   the   etherial    light, 

From  the   keen  evening  starren  downward  flung. 

The  great  fair  shudders,   pales  and   dies  away; 

Taps   plays   a   requiem.     I    have   heard    before 
Taps  softly  ringing   at  the  close  of  day: 

Oh,  would   that   I    might  hear  its  sound  once  more. 


A  few 


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